the incipient has salvaged the insides of a censorious pastiche, where moiety details the nightstand of expectation and sudden camaraderiesimplifying the closure of starvation that “promethean”is visual ‘orange zest’ ahoneysuckle caramelization where there are two romantics buried with guilt, and a master chess player that recalls to be a citrus therapy and every "Sunday paper" is filledwith oceanic opulence discussing religious iconographyand I visualize a yellow moon cactus obscene changes in a grey prolific office;an expostulate (rescind) but avoidance is in an emptypeach pit; an exploitation becoming a strangeadmiration

Where to even start, I don’t knowMaybe with your wholeness.With your completeness.

Sometimes maybe it feels that there is too much,Such a great muchness in you,It’s not too much.It’s exactly as much as you are.And it’s a blessing and a beauty and a bountyThat you will always overflow and you will never run dry.

Just the shine in your eyes could make the whole sea glimmer.Just the zeal in your laugh could contest with all the lemons in the world in zestJust the shimmer of your hair!It could send rockets to the moon.

The point isThat you,You,You,You,You are the point.

For my sister who I’ve just discovered is maybe my favorite person ever to write about

Get ****** sappy kingsCrying tears over everything Do we think it makes us good?As if any queen would,Lick her lips and shake her hips To climb up the sappy wood

Cry somewhere I can't hear I would care but it takes years For you to stop and for something badTo even make me feel sadSplit your heart and do it smart Because there's no walking away from that

I've been buried, as we all haveBut that doesn't change the fact That we face it with zest and strength While you sit and cry at length Unless your eyes see loved ones dieKeep that drama queen away from me

Elevating common proseFor pleasures sake, each poet knows,Gains by use of tools as thoseHe would at length I’m sure disclose

If payment were perhaps an earJust for a moment lent to hearKeenly offered verse— or beer,Loved by poets too, I fear.

Most often those who are unwiseNegate the poet’s enterpriseOut of their need to criticize(Perhaps within their misery lies)

Quite certain they must find a faultRegardless of the somersaultsSome poets do to try and haltThose who, in the name of help, assault.

Unless you’ve written words as these— Verses made and meant to pleaseWith just a little work to teaseXenia* coaxed from a’s and z’s

Your day lacks all that razzmatazz—asZest for verse—and all that jazz.

.

*Xenia—gifts given to a guest or stranger. This is an Abecedarian. First letter of each line follows the alphabet. Fun to do.

.Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)

Father. Mine and Yours. Both Oil Lamps at zestManaged to hone our Characters throughoutMine the Prime Wisdom; Yours his Water's BestBoth total Great Hearts we can't live withoutSo why do we Fight? If Reason betraysAnd later picks our Spoils scattered by WarAnd who gets Hurt? Those caught between the LeysWhere supposed Joy must settle by farYes I am aware you find it FunnyTo exploit your Gift and choose to IgnoreIs that your Model? Where your HarmonyTook some Chopsticks and plucked out those who bore.Remember him again. And read his LinesOn Words which matter; And Self you define.

A sonnet is a dandy thing all dressed In pomp and form and run-on lines and things— Enough to make the weary take up wings.Though this is but my third, I must confess, Lifetimes ago I wrote with zing and zest And sonnets then were little songs to sing To fluttering ******* and nightingales— or slings Against misfortune, kings, and other pests.

No poet’s court has ever sat assize Sans sonnets quick and cleverly contrived. Fair queen or country maid, though each its prize—The sonnet’s virtue rests in parted thighs.Finer roe has never graced a sturgeonNor caveat much mattered to a ******.

.Caveat is a warning or caution. Assize is a court or can be a judgement. Used here as "sat in judgement." Sans is an English word stolen from the French about 700 years ago. Means "without.".Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)

she liked the color yellow because it calmed herits brightness soothed her souland the sight of a yellow floweralways brought her joyit illuminated her dark daysand stormy weatherit always seemed to try so hardto be happyA quality she could relate to

but one day, she met a boy who liked orangea color she always said she hatedits hue too close to yellowbut too different to be enjoyedshe never wore the color orangefelt as if it drew attention to herwhen she was content enoughto be invisiblein the corner of the room

her favorite color was yellowand his was orangebut she never liked that colorwith its harshness and severityit reminded herof traffic conesand reflector vestsof emergenciesand warning signs

But one day, she realizedhe reminded her of the color yellowhe soothed her soulilluminated her dark daysand calmed her stormshe never seemed to try too hardbut always managed to make her smile

she realized yellow and orangeweren't that different after alland when the two hues came togetherher, perpetually the color yellowhim, forever orangeshe felt like the only girl in the room

Ask the Channel to his Promised Heart's BestAnd Glad you shared his Spirit with your SongCloser, then keep your Cherries fresh with ZestSo both can Savour each Flavours for longHow Fair you took his Living SupplementWhere these Vitamins need your Fresh SupportBut Remind him; Of Minerals and NourishmentAre what is Needed for his Best ReportThen the Grandfather whose Wise Hands will tell,Strike the Gong to when their Wrapped Hands hold fastBut knowing his Flute which charms your Bell,His Pickfold Numbers win your Lots at last.Tally him Softly; And he makes you ProudTo harvest Best Fruits whilst singing out loud.

With Good Business brewed is Good Business toldConfirmed the New Mentor who taught us wellSuch swig a Sterling Medicine beholdBut knowing our Skills his Avid Trust spellForsought this Blue Trade our Clients relyWas that our Webbed Gifts can reciprocateThat within those Months our Service applyTo increase the Bank's volume aggregateSuch now our Eagle wears; Tri-Coloured SchemesWeaved in pleats forth to Genious uniqueAnd if we can prove to maintain those SeamsWill he be Proud of our Learning oblique.Once that's done, to the Pub he tips his ZestAll the more content our Minds would not guess.

This feeling I have that drags my spiritAnd I indulge in its lowly zest out of habitMy feet they move in a trudge like mannerShoulders hunched inwards non receptive to splendour.

How heavy it is in my heart I weepFor a life been dealt in a single, swift sweepCards that has been dealt from aeons pastOaths recited loudly so that they would last.

Amidst the crowd of mask-faced happinessUnconvinced, I slipped past unfound lest I be careless.Discomforted in what on this path may lieDiscontented as such that my heart whines a cry.

Rigidity of routine when sensibility took overBruised bad and battered well my heart tumbled afterIt felt like it's the end of my dream laden daysReality sinks in, picks on my heart and there it stays.

I don't want to leave my coveted dreamscape I don't want to destroy my only means of escapeOn the ***** of fantasy, forever I want to stayBut it's crumbling away alarmingly like sun beaten clay.

I deceive my heart into thinking that there's still hopeTruth is I may have come to the end of the ropeHeart wants to hear a faint whisper of reassuranceMind chides heart, it judgingly delivers it's sentence.

My cries cannot be heard, a wail of futile pleasBanging on locked doors for which I don't have the keysSo weak this spirit for it has thus been brokenMorsel by morsel, this hapless soul is being eaten.

This burden I'm carrying seem never to have lightenedIt is the dark of this period I wish to have brightenedSomeone, anyone help...please show me a wayIn this god forsaken pit I do not wish to stay.

However there exists yet a slim little chanceKey to courage is somewhere if I could afford a glanceChances are that I may never even find itI'll be trapped in a hole in which I can never truly fit.

Each day I pray for an ear that will hear above all the noise clearly His voice.For while sometimes it's best to be serving with zest, sometimes it's better to sit for a breather and wait in his presence and enjoy this true essence of sitting and being before going and doing. So while sometimes I'll Martha I know that I'd rather spend time being Mary, in less of a hurry, for there at his feet I'll be more complete and hear his clear voice above all the noise.

Serving at New Day 2019.#newdaygeneration . Luke 10. 41 & 4241 “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “you are worried and upset about many things,42 but few things are needed—or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.”

always the bridesmaid, never the brideyou have no idea how many times i criedasking, "why me? why not me?"

well, for startersi always oversleepmy eating habits are on repeati've worn the same clothes, same filth for three days this weeki don't make an effort because i'm not going outbut no one asks me out because i don't make an efforti write love poems i never sendi creepily covet people i consider friendswhile my heart is stuck on the same old trend

The whole hills of high mountain are covered with pure whiteness, very shining gazing the eyes…It is ****. The pearl-like dandelions, I mean, cunning coming, cunning coming …dance and sing with the wave of whizzing band. It is ****. the land so far, remote and inaccessible, mountains are far elegantly standing upright, I can't see exactlywhere pure whiteness carpets softly the zest…full of ****. I was there if I exactly remember…I was sinking in depth… Walking…Watching… Running…1000 miles around me had been surrounded with ****.Now I’m here, in the land so far, remote and forlorn, but I know on the zest…there is ****!

The Judge (who fears the mind’s frontiers) inclined his head to yawnwhile making haste through courtroom waste, though slightly pale and wan.(A voodoo Loon withdraws as soon as Night condemns the Dawn.)

ETERNITY

While in his cell, the verdict fell - the sighs of Silence, rifeWhile in his cell, the verdict fell - the Reaper played a fifeWhile in his cell, the verdict fell - the price was Jackie's life

EPILOGUE

Well Jackie's ghost, unlike the most, still mused upon the praisefor misdeeds done in victories won when cruising in a craze,and once again upon the sin of thinking, nowadayswhere, cunningly, humanity’s served lies, and trust betrays.Then, reconciled, it simply smiled at fortune's wanton ways.

EPITAPH

A mind was caught while thinking thoughts neath Sammy’s prying gazeand forced to stop by concept cops, else join the castaways.For now it's law to hold in awe the brave new world's malaiseand cerebrate with programmed pate, adorned with thorned bouquets,then mimic mimes in troubled times - and no one disobeys.With freedom’s death, truth holds its breath awaiting better days.